


hold my body, hold my breath

by ChaosMidge (NotQuiteInsane)



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Transformation, Consensual Kink, Consentacles, Monster sex, Mysterious Sea Monster, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stuffing, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Trans Barnes, Trans Male Character, Underwater Sex, Vaginal Sex, ambiguous character, references to drowning, use of it/its pronouns, use of magic in sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28379178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotQuiteInsane/pseuds/ChaosMidge
Summary: A creature pulls Barnes to the depths and has its way with him.
Relationships: Commander James Barnes/Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom
Comments: 17
Kudos: 45





	hold my body, hold my breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alucinoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alucinoria/gifts).



> idk man someone asked for tentacle fic an age ago and i finally did it while bingewriting chatfic.
> 
> title from Fear of Water by SYML
> 
> <3 uncle stan for proofread and <3 as always to my friends, Romans, countrynerds.

The water is dark and cold and hard. It's familiar in a way that Barnes doesn't particularly want to think about—this sinking feeling, the crush of the water, the sheer weight of it. The knowledge that the volume of it above him would be enough to crush someone to a pulp. 

But not him. Not today. 

And not the creature in whose clutches he is being dragged downward. 

There's very little light this far down—not quite the mesopelagic zone, though certainly too far up to be finding a creature of this size or nature. 

Then again, tentacled creatures have been more common of late, in no small thanks to Shoin's moronic little project. 

Barnes doesn't bother to keep his eyes open, in any case. It's dark. He can't see. There's no point in letting the salt burn. He's got enough going for him getting used to breathing water in and out. 

Convenient, he thinks. 

Thinking—always been his problem, hasn't it? 

That's certainly what Barnes thinks as a tentacle begins to wrap up his leg, underneath his trousers, ripping the seams with its steady, unrelenting progress. His arms have been bound above his head by another tentacle and his shirt already lost to the currents of the Greenland Sea. 

He feels that leg of his trousers come loose after the tentacle pushes up to his thigh. The seams don't stand a chance. 

And still they're descending. 

Another tentacle does the same thing to his other trouser leg and then he is free of them, skin exposed to the frigid waters—saved only by Endure Elements and his own hardy nature. 

The two tentacles on his legs inch slowly upward, curling around his buttocks and back down his thighs. The sensation of the suckers moving across his skin is strange, pulling at a place inside of him he hadn't known about until this situation was offered to him on a silver platter—in a silver lined flask, more like, but the image remains. 

Another tentacle begins to wrap itself around his torso as the ones on his legs pull in opposite directions, spreading him wide enough that he knows an ache will set up in his hips before long. 

Chill water pushes against his most intimate parts, a sensation that is both nothing and everything compared to the pressure-release of the tentacles against his skin. (He really can't find a way to describe how odd that is, the suckers don't latch on and stay. They move continually, in such varied undulating patterns across so much of his skin that he can't keep track at all. Every second, every twitch of his muscles and the muscles of the thing holding him moves the suckers again, catching his skin in ways nothing ever has before. The only thing he knows is that he wants more.) 

The tentacle wrapping around his torso begins to brush past his nipples and he can't help but gasp, taking in only water as he does so, and squirm within the hold. But there's no purchase he can gain, no way to pull back from or push against the tiny suckers that latch onto his nipples then let go, then latch on again. The pressure and then the release. The pressure and the slick slide of the creature's flesh against his own. 

He wants to move, wants to ask the creature for more, wants one of those tentacles to push farther up the inside of his leg and take. 

But he can't speak beneath the surface, even with the potion of waterbreathing working its magic. The best he can do is expel water in a kind of scream, silent, pleading, heated, desperate. 

The tentacle cups the muscle of his chest and squeezes, lightly at first and then tightening as he tries to push into it. Futile, really, when there's nothing to brace against but the water. 

One of the tentacles around his legs—the left one, Barnes thinks, but it's growing difficult to tell with as much as is going on—pushes its tip down his crack, spreading his cheeks to the chill of the water and the smooth unfamiliarity of the creature's flesh. 

He bites his lip as the tip presses lightly against his arsehole, seeking entry. It circles around, then begins to press inward. The taper begins to breach the tight ring of muscle and then pulls back out. 

Barnes wants to yell, but he can't. 

He wants to push back against the slick appendage, but he can't. 

There's heat in his skin, fighting against the chill of the water, pushing to the surface and diving deep beneath it, pooling in his gut like so much molten rock beneath the earth. 

The tentacle begins to press in again at the same time a sucker lands directly on his nipple and this time doesn't move on again. It stays there, catching and releasing, strange tissue fluttering around the sensitive nub, making him arch in an attempt to press harder against it. But that only moves his arse away from the tentacle away from there. 

Barnes slumps. 

The tentacle, as if sensing his understanding of the situation, presses in further—a reward or a torture, as anyone's guess, though Barnes thinks both. 

The tentacle around his other leg curls up over the apex of his thighs, then down through his public hair and across his clit, sucking in just the same way as is being done to his—oh gods to both of his nipples. 

The heat and want spikes through him, bubbling up from his core and into his chest, down his spine and all through his brain. He cranes his neck as though that will help him do anything at all against this onslaught. 

But no. It only grows worse when the tentacle on his clit continues moving downward and begins to run along his folds. He throbs. 

Were he not underwater, he is sure that he would be soaking wet. 

The tentacle in his arse is still pressing slowly in, the stretch burning just a little with its insistence and the introduction of what salt water clings to it. He lets his lip free from his teeth and hears nothing as he tries to moan into the water. 

A—again, he doesn't know how to describe it—a flutter? of the tentacles around him makes him think the creature might have heard his attempt. Whether or not this is true, the feeling is phenomenal. 

As that ever persistent tentacle inches farther into his arse, the one at his other opening dips just the tip in, rubbing at the softness there, against the sensitive nerves that make him attempt another moan. 

Before he knows what's happening, there's a tentacle in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, filling him, flexing so strangely with the taste of salt and distinct other that he can't concentrate on the feeling of the suckers against the roof of his mouth. 

All he knows is that he has to start breathing through his nose and humming is very difficult. 

He makes the attempt in any case. 

The tentacle in his mouth undulates, stretching his jaw, pushing more of itself in as another sucker works past the ring of muscle around his arsehole. His eyes, already shut, screw harder shut as he tries to process all of the sensations being put upon him. The tentacle in his arse, the one around his chest plucking at his nipples, the one that has begun to press at the muscled dips of his hips, and the one that is slowly, torturously intent on pressing more of itself into his mouth—not to mention the one that is pressing suckers against his clit and labia and using just its tip to fuck slowly into his cunt. 

The tentacle in his arse pulls out and pushes back in slowly, letting him feel the pop-pop-pop as each individual sucker passes through the relaxing muscle of his hole. It twists in, pressing against those walls and touching him in ways he'd never imagined. 

So full, so aching, so fucking hot, so desperate. 

He wants to be filled more, wants to fuck himself down on that last tentacle, wants it in his cunt, wants the suckers pressing against every inch of himself. 

But he can't move, can't press himself down, can't do anything but hang there, suspended from nothing, as this creature slowly pries him apart from the inside out. 

A pulse of frigid water he only warning he has before a sharp pain sears across one shoulder blade, sending another jolt of heat through him. It mixes with the pleasure curling through him the same way he's sure his blood must be curling through the water if he could only see it in this darkness. Red and wisping, tendrils spreading out and diffusing into the very water that he breathes. 

He thinks he can taste it, there in the back of his throat as an iron tang among the salt of the water. 

The second sting, across his other shoulder blade, is just on the right side of too much, and this time when he breathes in sharply through his nose, he knows he can taste the blood. 

He also knows that the creature that has hold of him would never let anything like a shark get within several miles of him. It is the only thing aloud to have him in the intimate crush of its jaws—or beak as the case may be. As the smooth, hardness rubbing itself across the skin of his back may be. 

He would pay more attention to this, if the creature did not choose that exact moment to begin the steady press of a tentacle into his cunt. 

Barnes feels every sucker, smaller at first, and then larger as the tentacle pushes in. The tip, prehensile like nothing else could possibly be, rubs at his inner walls as it begins to coil inside him like a slowly pulsating snake. 

He clenches around the tentacle in his cunt and the one in his arse as the suckers in his cunt undulate against the ridges inside him, as the tentacle fills him, stretches him, touches every inch of him that it can. It wraps around his cervix and the suckers pull the orgasm from him. He doesn't know how this is the first time he's come, but it keeps coming, his cunt clenching and pulsing as the tentacle in his ass continues to fuck slowly in, as the tentacle in his mouth presses against the back of his throat and he gags, as the suckers on his clit and nipples fluctuate rapidly between pressure and release. 

He's soon over the edge into oversensitivity and begins to struggle, but it appears the creature isn't done yet. The tentacle in his cunt pulls slowly out, the edge of each sucker catching at his opening, when all but the last inch of it has slithered out of him, it begins to press back in again. 

Were he above water, Barnes thinks he would be sobbing. The stretch in his jaw and the dizziness from lack of oxygen are just two more sensations in his overstimulated body. 

Another tentacle—or maybe the one wrapped around his chest—begins to coil around his neck. 

This continues on, inexorable as the tides, as the push and pull of the plates beneath the earth's surface long posited by kooks in London. Before too long, Barnes has been fucked through the oversensitivity and back into a raw sensation that under certain circumstances could be called pleasure. The smooth beak at his back has transitioned itself from rubbing against the cuts over his shoulder blades to a grip on one of his shoulders. It's grounding, almost, if the "ground" weren't hundreds of feet below him. 

He's loose and relaxed, entirely at the mercy of this creature, as he always has been, if he hadn't been too stubborn to just submit. He lets—no, he endures, persists, indulges, revels as the creature has its way with him, as it fucks lazily into his arse and his cunt, curling up inside him like he's becoming its second skin, like there is no separation between the two of them. He's so full, so stuffed with slick and squirming tentacles that he can't think without them worming their way into there as well. 

There is only shattering pleasure with the glue of gentle pain to put him back together, to be held together by the suckered limbs wrapping around him, more and more creeping in by the minute. 

His second orgasm is almost a surprise. The low burning heat of his insides building in pressure steadily, without him noticing, before erupting and wracking him with shudders. Barnes' cunt pulses weakly around the tentacle inside him and he swears he feels a responding shudder from the appendage, thinks he might feel something like a hot liquid spill into him, filling the cracks, oozing out around the tentacle stuffing his hole. 

Barnes is limp, dizzy with endorphins and the lack of oxygen. Too fucked out, blissed, floating, to recognize that they're moving slowly upwards. The pressure of the water is decreasing incrementally. 

When Barnes comes to on a nearby beach, Cel is wrapped around him like a friendly octopus, back to their normal form, almost burning against his freezing, naked skin. They are also nude, head pressed into his neck, running their lips across an angry looking weal on his shoulder—conspicuously shaped like a squid beak if anyone outside the two of them and select sailors knew what a squid beak bite looked like. 

"Hey," he says groggily, pressing his cheek to the top of their head. Their usually crazy hair is plastered flat from their recent dunk in the ocean. "You okay?" 

"Warm," they mutter, and their teeth nip at the flesh of his shoulder. "Mmm. Good." 

Barnes smiles and lets his head rest against the dark pebbles of the beach. 

Yeah. Good. 


End file.
